


A fixer of broken things

by CabiriaMinerva



Series: My end is my beginning [1]
Category: The Magicians (TV), The Magicians - Lev Grossman
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Dreaming, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Mourning, Soulmates, The Underworld, True Love, dream realm, queliot, we all agree those two deserved better right?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:53:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23120545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CabiriaMinerva/pseuds/CabiriaMinerva
Summary: Eliot Waugh didn’t dream often. Which was not exactly that surprising, considering that he was usually in a drunken stupor. And to be honest, what good could that do, anyway?—You know that place between sleep and awake, that place where you still remember dreaming? That’s where I’ll always love you. That’s where I’ll be waiting. (J.V. Hart)
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Series: My end is my beginning [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1667686
Comments: 4
Kudos: 34





	1. I.

Eliot Waugh didn’t dream often. Which was not exactly that surprising, considering that he was usually in a drunken stupor. When he was not drowning himself in wine and liquors, he would stun himself with all kinds of pills, just to stop _feeling. Remembering_. His subconscious was therefore rarely free to roam the dream realm. And to be honest, what good could he find there, anyway? His fucked up life promised dreams just as fucked, and the nice dreams would fuck him up just as much. Those, the nice dreams, where the ones he dreaded the most. The ones where memories and fantasy combined into something beautiful, something that felt too real, too good to be true, and almost smelled like hope. He had once had one so beautiful, so generous, after having been too busy solving another Fillory shitty crisis to actually drink enough to doze off in a dreamless sleep, and his awakening had hurt so much that he had thrown up and had refused to leave his room, claiming to have a raging headache. So, you know, better be safe than sorry and simply medicate and repress every single fucking thing. Fall in a coma-like sleep for a few hours and then wake up and try to keep it together for a while longer, pretending he wasn’t crumbling and hurting all the time.

After all, he had lost the love of his life (well, lives, actually. Since they had had a lifetime already, but that had been so distant, just a bunch of memories… beautiful, ethereal, unreachable memories) and even though he knew he would find someone to warm his bed from time to time, maybe even someone he would like enough to stick around for a while, he doubted someone could ever replace what he had lost.

Needless to say, he felt justified in his half-conscious yet relentless escape from even more suffering.

Also needless to say, sometimes things didn’t really work out as he wished they would.

Sometimes that _one_ glass of wine or _that_ pill that would have sealed the deal went forgotten in the chaos that was his life. Sometimes, that chaotic, unpredictable, fucked up life of him did everything in its power to prevent him from medicating enough.

That was the case that evening, after yet another fucking catastrophe barely thwarted by the lot of them. The day had started pretty well (for his standards, at least… he had gulped down two greenish cocktails while still in bed, followed by a bottle of wine, some pills… he had lost count way before noon), but then all the usual mess had happened (because _of course_ it had) and he hadn't been able to keep up with the drinking and the popping pills.

However, he would have to admit that it didn't seem too bad. Nor too goof. To be honest, it just... didn't seem anything at all. He was in a dark, silent void. Come to think of it, it was kind of relaxing. Maybe all that alcohol and drugs actually killed his ability to dream? He could live with that.

«Hey.» A soft voice broke the silence, making Eliot start. His heart skipped a beat before starting to hammer in his chest.

Eliot slowly turned around, his feet as heavy as lead. He would have recognized that voice anywhere, even after a million years.

«Hey,» he said with a trembling smile to the man standing in front of him. Damn his brain, tricking him into thinking he could get some simple nothingness for once and then hitting him with yet another fucking dream. But oh, god, he couldn't help the softness on his face at the sight of him.

«I know what you are thinking, but this is not a dream. Uhm... not exactly, at least?» The man bite his bottom lips, trying to find a way to explain his presence. «I've been waiting for you, El.» He swallowed, trying to hold back his emotions, then smiled shyly.

Ignoring the ache in his heart, Eliot replied bitterly, «Were you waiting to torture me a bit more? Yeah, well thank you, but I think I'm doing a hell of a job even without these» he flapped a hand around, «fucking dreams.»

«No, you don't get it.» The dream with Quentin's face made a step towards him. «It's _me_.»

Now Eliot's heart skipped more than just one beat. No, how could that be? He swallowed. «Q?»

Quentin smiled softly, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear while nodding.

«Q?» Eliot repeated, eyes wide open. «How...?»

«Yeah, well, I'm not sure I can explain it all in a way that actually makes sense. I just  _found_ this place while I was exploring the Underworld and I just kept coming back and waited – well, more hoped, actually – until you stumbled upon it and, so, yeah...»

Eliot's quivering voice interrupted his stutter before it got worse. «Q?» A tear slowly made its way down his cheek. Eliot exhaled a trembling breath and stretched a hand towards him, lightly brushing his fingertips against the other man's cheeks as to make sure of his corporeality. «Q.» His lips relaxed into a smile that hadn't blessed his feature in a while. «Am I finally dead?»

The way he said the words made Quentin flinch. «Don't say that as if you actually wish it were true,» he scolded him. «And no, you are not dead. You won't be dead for a while.»

«Well, that's a pity,» answered Eliot in that sardonic, infuriating way so typical of him.

«You don't mean that.»

«I do.» Eliot stared at him, his mouth a thin line on a pale face that spoke of sleepless nights and tormented days. 

It was Quentin's turn to breath out a trembling breath. «Please, don't say that. I... I am sorry, it's my fault. I...» His shaky hand raised, hesitantly, just to go limp again against his side, as if he feared Eliot's reaction, his rage, his rejection maybe? 

But Eliot bolted forward and took it in his hands, his eyes dark and serious as he said, «Don't you dare, Quentin Coldwater. Don't you dare take my guilt and make it your own even now that you are dead  _because of me_ . After all I did, all I said...» His hold tightened on the other man's hands, which he brought to his mouth to brush his knuckles with his lips. «I was an asshole. I  _am_ an asshole. A fucking dick.»


	2. II.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so... I made a bit of a mess. I started with the idea of making two/three chapters because I knew it would be angsty af, but while writing I realized it was probably better to have it all together as a one-shot (which this actually is), but by then I already posted chapter 1 and I just went with it.  
> I'm sorry, I'm like 50% Quentin and 50% Eliot myself (and 100% of a confused mess). I hope you're enjoying this anyway :)

«It wasn't your fault. I didn't die because of you.» Quentin run his finger through his hair in a frustrated gesture so familiar that it almost hurt.

«You did. Nothing would have happened if only I...» Eliot let out another trembling breath. «I set things in motion with my stupidity. But the _idea_ of you prisoner in that castle for all eternity... I just couldn't bear it. I should have thought a better solution. Maybe if I...» He raised one hand to his face, fingers tensing and relaxing in time with his stormy thoughts.

«Eliot.» Quentin took another step forward and his hand encased the other man's fingers and slowly, tenderly brought them to his chest. «Stop.» He licked his lips as he so often did when he was nervous, but now every movement was suffused with an unusual calm. Yes, he was nervous, that was obvious. But it was _different_. Eliot didn't really know how to describe it: agitated, but somehow also in control, as if he had rehearsed it a thousand times. And maybe he had – after all, who knew how time passed in the Underworld. And also... his nervousness had lost a bit of his sharpness, it had been smoothed.

Still. That was Quentin. Q. _His_ Q.

«I am a mess,» continued the younger man with an apologetic smile. «I had it all ready in my mind: what to say, how to say it... You know, time in here is a bit different. I know that for you it's only been six months, but here...» He squeezed Eliot's fingers. «It has been just one second and at the same time it has been a century.» He huffs a soft laughter. «I know it hasn't been easy for you, I... I've been watching. Yes, I know, there are rules... but as you can see, I found a way to break them even after my untimely demise. Which is funny, if you consider that my Discipline is _fixing,_ not _breaking_ things, but...»

«Q. I have never been happier to break a rule, and you know I really _like_ to break them.»

Quentin chuckled. «Yes, you do. Anyway, I found this place and when I understood what it was I just had to _try_ at least to... fix...» His mouth opened and closed a few time.

«To fix... me?» For a second, Eliot expression was open, vulnerable, _pained._

«Wait, wh... No. No, no, no. This is _not_ what I meant. I wanted to fix the mess I made by dying. _You_ don't need to be fixed, you never did, because you _are and never were not broken._ » Quentin pressed Eliot's hand to his chest as if trying to merge with it. After a brief moment of silence, he continued, «You know I like to try and fix everything... especially after I went and screwed-up in the first place. So I thought that maybe if I got to talk to you _a last time_... then _maybe_ I could... _do_ something to make it better.»

«You are gone, Q. Nothing can make _this_ better,» is all Eliot can reply. «Nothing,» he repeats with a broken voice. «I... I don't blame you for what you did. God only knows how much I tried to crack the code to changing the past, and if I could I would have done it. I don't blame you, I know why you sacrificed yourself. For me. For everyone.» He looked away. «But sometimes I wish you just...»

There was no need for him to finish his sentence; Quentin knows. He had thought about it, many times. What if he hadn't? What if he'd let Everett become a god and dealt with him afterwards? But it was a bit too late to change what had happened, wasn't it?

«I know.»

They stood like that for a while, hands joined and eyes telling all kind of stories of _what if_ and _if only_.

Eventually, Eliot mustered his courage and whispered, «I love you, Q,» breaking whatever had been keeping him from crumbling all those months. As he fell on the floor of the void they were in (could void even have a floor? He knew Quentin had probably brooded about that at some point while he was waiting), Quentin only let go of his hand to envelope him in his arms. «I love you, but it is too late now.» Eliot felt something warm and wet on his cheeks. Was he crying? He probably was. And, surprisingly enough, he didn't care. Not any more.

Quentin placed a soft kiss on his head, his nose tickled by the soft, dark curls. «I love you, too.» He inhaled his scent, trying to store it somewhere in his mind for the moments when he missed Eliot so much that even all the peacefulness and the greatness of the Underworld couldn't soothe him. «I love you, Eliot Waugh. You are an ass at times, but I love you anyway.» He slowly rocked back and forth with the man in his arms, a movement meant to calm him, or maybe to calm them both.

It wasn't easy, for either of them. That was a conversation that would have needed more than a few stolen moments. They had so much to say, both with their words and their bodies. Had Quentin been alive, would probably have come after bodies.

«El... we don't have much time,» he forced himself to remind them both. He felt Eliot nodding against his chest and sighed. «I didn't really fix much, did I?» he asked smiling on the other man's hair. «I had such a nice speech about me being in a happy place and you needing to move on with your life and, uhm, all that stuff you always hear in movies but... uhm... I realize now that I probably made things even worse just because I missed you so damn much.»

Eliot managed to chuckle and tried to wipe the tears from his face. «Oh, Q.» He raised his gaze on Quentin and caressed his cheek. «You died, there is no _worse_ than having to live on without you.»

«Don't...»

«Don't say that? But it is true. I keep... medicating, to the extreme, really. Just to numb myself a little.» Eliot wondered if it was a good idea to go full honest, then he shrugged. Quentin was already dead and they were talking feelings in no man's land, something that he wasn't sure could be repeated. Fuck this. «Sometime I wonder _why_ going on at all? Why, when I could simply join you in the Underworld? But then I just can't do it.»

«I don't want you to _join me_. Well, yes, I want that. But only when the time comes. Not before. Our friends need you, you have so much more to live for, to live through...» Quentin smiled his sad smile. «I will wait, there are plenty of books to read and game of cards to play, here. And I met my dad, he's here as well. I won't feel too lonely, don't worry. And when your times come, I'll be here waiting for you with a nice basket of peaches and plums.» He tried to smile, but then looked around, worriedly. «Uhm, you're about to wake up.»

«I don't want to go.» Eliot's heart raced.

«You have to. Margo needs you. The others need you.»

Eliot sensed his body starting to wake up, resisting his attempts to keep sleeping. «Fuck!» he half-shouted in a rage. «I don't want to go!»

«I will be waiting, so you go on living and stop trying to medicate yourself to death, ok?»

«No. No, no, no!» He felt a tingling in his limbs, the sensation of bed sheets on his skin. «Q.»

Quentin bend down a little and kissed him. At first, it was almost shy, but in a few seconds they were devouring each other like starved men.

Then, the darkness gave space to the soft morning light, the tangible presence of Quentin's lips on his replaced by the leftover taste of scotch.

The words _I love you_ hung in the air, as if suspended.

Eliot opened his eyes.


End file.
